


Ghosts

by Ilsia



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Achromatism, Colours, Could be seen as slash if you're wearing 'em goggles, Gen, Illness, No relationships intended, Older Fic, Sherlock being vibrant, Supernatural Elements, paranormal stuff
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-11-16
Updated: 2014-11-16
Packaged: 2018-02-25 15:18:14
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,075
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2626493
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ilsia/pseuds/Ilsia
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Each day the grey took over more of his skin. Each day, Sherlock shined brighter.</p><p>A drabble with supernatural elements.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Ghosts

It took a while for John to notice. He was used to fading into the background, being unassuming and pleasantly forgettable - people didn't notice him unless he made himself noticed. It was a good trait in the army, and doubly so when following Sherlock. The man knew how to attract trouble and it was often John's job to get him out of it.

In the beginning it was easy enough to dismiss, small incidents that he blamed on the scramble of the crime scene, the hurry they were in or other things more worthy of their attention. But the singular cases kept piling up until they were no longer isolated occurrences, until it became the norm and not the exception. Until he could no longer justify it.

He was being forgotten.

It shouldn't have been possible, it was out of the realm of normal or even plausible - but there it was, fact nonetheless. Once you rule out the impossible, whatever remains, however improbable, must be true, after all.

It wasn't that he was disappearing, or at least not in a way he could discern for himself - but it was very obvious he was being forgotten. It started with the people he had the least dealings with - people he met for the first time, people he didn't know, people who didn't know him.

Now, this is a fact; Even without consciously noting it, people are aware of others. When walking down a street, a man will note each individual he passes, however briefly this may be - it could be a flicker of an eye, a step to avoid them, a passing glance or even a smile. It wasn't that people started bumping into John, no. They just passed him without ever acknowledging his existence with even the slightest twitch of their expression. Their eyes passed over him without a pause, as if there was nothing there to see. It was like he didn't exist as more than an object to quickly sidestep to avoid collision. As if he wasn't a person.

When working at the clinic, his patients would come in and appear momentarily confused, eyes scanning the room without really noting his presence until he called out to them and they seemed to notice him for the first time, slightly embarrassed. They might comment something to the extent of "I didn't see you there!" or "Where were you hiding just now?"

If he passed them by in the hallway later, they never recognized him.

These occasions were the ones easy enough to dismiss. So were the cases of people ignoring him on crime scenes, people he didn't remember the names of - he assumed they were either too busy or thought him below their notice. Sherlock had a way of commandeering the space he occupied, drawing everyone's attention to his grand gestures and sharp words. John didn't think it at all weird that he would go unnoticed.

What wasn't as easy to dismiss was when people he knew by name and who knew _him_ by name started to ignore him. He didn't think much about it at first - maybe he had done something to annoy the others. Sherlock was probably just busy with some experiment or his thoughts - it wasn't uncommon for the detective to act as if he didn't notice John for several hours while stuck in his own head.

It started with simple incidents. He'd ask Lestrade for his opinion on a case and be ignored. He'd comment "brilliant" on yet another of Sherlock's deductions, but not receive the customary imperceptible smile and glance his way. He'd pass by Mrs. Hudson in the stairway and not receive a greeting in return. This continued until he'd have to physically make his presence known to receive a reaction, and even then people seemed distracted from his words and face, never able to maintain eye contact, attention constantly wandering to something else.

At this point John knew something was wrong. But what exactly could he do about it? He had no idea what was going on, why it was happening or what was causing it. He had no idea of how to even go about finding any of that out - he wasn't a master of deduction, like Sherlock was, and he didn't have any of the pieces for this puzzle. But he _was_ starting to notice some aspects of this... phenomenon that seemed to be constant.

One, it was worse with people he didn't know.

Two, it was growing worse each day.

Three, it was especially bad in Sherlock's presence, or after spending time with the man.

He had assumed the third option was simply because of the overwhelming presence of the detective, but this couldn't apply to the times he tried to have a chat with Lestrade after Sherlock had already hurried off to who knows where. He was left much to his own devices these days, Sherlock never waiting for him to get in the taxi or catch up to him. Sometimes John wondered if the detective even remembered he had a flatmate. He had been paying his share of the rent and did the shopping as always, Sherlock never questioning the seemingly self-resupplying fridge or the relative state of cleanness in the apartment.

When the fourth aspect of the phenomenon made itself known, John was forced to admit that Sherlock seemed to be, if not the cause, then at least related to the cause of it all. For a while now he had been seeing flickers and flashes, shadows of movement in the corner of his eye. Whenever he turned his head to catch a better look, they were gone. He wondered if he was going mad.

The shadows grew a more and more common sight as time passed. Sherlock never talked to him anymore, he had difficulty doing the shopping because of the trouble trying to catch the shop clerks' attention, and all in all he felt more like a ghost than a real person these days. It was around then that he noticed the spot on the left side of his right index finger. It was a rather unremarkable, small blemish. Nothing noteworthy, looking more like a bruise than anything - but it was spreading. For one wild moment he had entertained the idea of leprosy, before giving it up quickly. The area wasn't insensate and he had none of the other symptoms.

The spot grew bigger slowly, but surely. And as it grew, he realized it wasn't a bruise or a blemish - it was as if the colour had simply been sucked out of that part of his skin. There was nothing wrong with the area in itself, only the lack of colour. And as the grey spread over the knuckle and started reaching towards the other fingers of his right hand, he noticed for the first time just how _bright_ other people were. It was as if he could see their brilliance, their light, now that he was losing his own. And Sherlock was brighter than anyone else.

When the grey area covered all of the fingers in his right hand and stretched out in tendrils over his wrist, he realized Sherlock was getting brighter, more colourful, with each passing day. At the same time his own light dimmed, the detective's grew stronger in leaps. His friend was literally sucking the life out of him.

John didn't know if leaving London, leaving the adventures and the action - not that he got much of those these days anyway, unable to keep up with the man who wouldn't wait for him - if leaving _Sherlock_ would have helped, or if it would've been hopeless at this point. He didn't know, but he didn't really care, anyway. He couldn't bring himself to leave the one man who had brought him back to life, and was now stealing it away from him.

He gave up on figuring what was happening - not that he had been making any progress on that front - or why it was happening, gave up on trying to stop it and just settled down to wait and try to enjoy what he had left, while he had it. He didn't know what would happen to him once the grey took over him, if anything would happen at all. Maybe he would actually fade away, disappear completely instead of just from the minds of other people. Maybe he would forget himself next. Whatever would follow, there was no point worrying about it. The only viable option left to him wasn't viable, so he would just have to wait and see.

His strength started waning as the stain moved onto his other arm and started mottling his legs like blotches of spilled, grey paint. The achromatism was surrounding him from the outside in, starting at the edges and reaching towards the centre, like a spider spinning its web. The day came John only had a splotch or two of colour left, in the area near his heart and over it. Anything he wore turned grey faster than he could don it, so he didn't bother spoiling new clothes with the phenomenon.

No one spoke to him anymore or noticed him - Lestrade seemed to occasionally look at him and rub the bridge of his nose as if his head hurt, and Sherlock frowned sometimes while staring in his direction, but other than that he was truly alone. Only animals seemed somewhat aware of his presence. The shadows he had been seeing were a common sight now, hiding away in the alcoves and corners of every surface possible. Sherlock was glowing brighter than the sun, enough that it hurt John's eyes to look at his friend. Strangely, he was glad something good seemed to have come out of his strange condition.

He was aware he didn't have much time left, but he wanted to enjoy his quite possibly last night with Sherlock. The detective didn't have a case and was pacing restlessly in circles around the living room of their flat, paying no mind to the grey ghost-like man watching him from his place on the couch. But John had things he wanted to tell his friend, and he would say them whether said friend could hear him or not.

"Sherlock", John started, reaching out to touch the pacing man's arm as he passed the couch, not really surprised when the detective didn't appear to notice the gesture and simply continued his 37th circle as if uninterrupted.

"Sherlock", he repeated, almost sighing the name. "I know you don't put much faith into things like friendship or other emotions like that - dull, right? But even if you don't think it, or didn't think it, I've always considered you one of my closest friends. The best, in fact."

John paused and simply watched the man's pacing for a while, before continuing.

"I want you to know that I don't blame you - I know you had nothing to do with this, whatever this is. And even if you did, I don't think I could blame you anyway."

Sherlock paused mid-step and frowned, looking around himself like trying to locate something. John held his breath and stared, daring for a second to hope he had been heard, but then the man shook his head dismissively and resumed his previous movement, mumbling something too lowly for John to make any sense of. John sighed again.

"I think this is it for me, Sherlock. I don't know what's happening, and I really wish I had half of your deduction skills - maybe I could've figured something out before now, then. But I don't, and it's a little too late, I think."

The detective flopped gracelessly down in the armchair he often occupied. The army doctor had noted Sherlock never used the one John had labelled as his in his own mind, perhaps subconsciously avoiding it.

"Sherlock", John addressed the man opposite him again, willing as much strength and emotion into his words as he could. "You saved me from my memories and myself, made me feel alive again, and I'll always be thankful for that. I love you."

And as the grey surged forward to cover the last of his heart, swallowing it hungrily like a downpour of rain covering the earth after a long drought, the man slouching in the armchair suddenly raised his head, looking very confused.

"John?"

Sherlock stared at the empty couch in front of him.

There was no answer.

* * *

**Author's Note:**

> This was something that wouldn't leave me alone until it was written. It's a oneshot for now, since I probably won't continue it - though I wouldn't be opposed to someone else playing around with the idea, as long as the credit for the origins were given. This was originally posted on Fanfiction.net two years back, so it's an older ficlet by now.
> 
> The "I love you" at the end is up to the reader's interpretation; whether it's a familial love, the love between two friends or romantic - feel free to make your own conclusions.


End file.
